The Robber and The Redcoat
by Zoe Welling
Summary: As times are trying in colonial Boston, a silent war between the Assassins and Templars ensues, disguised through a setting of rebellion and war. And twisted in this scene of chaos are Fillan McCarthy and Eleanor Davenport.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 _Author's Note:_

 _So I don't usually put introductory notes on the pieces I write, but with this story in particular I'd like to just clear some things up. Pretty much all of the characters I focus on are Multiplayer Characters from Assassin's Creed III, since I really liked to read all of their biographies and mentally intertwine their stories as I played through the game. Eventually I decided I wanted to create some sort of story using the already made character backgrounds as a foundation for this. So with that I'd like to say that a lot of the identities of these characters are not entirely thought of by me, though I have tweaked some minor facts so their stories won't match the biographies spot on._

 _I just wanted to make a quick disclaimer about that, though I have added my own original touches and details to their stories. Aside from that lengthy and probably unnecessary note, I hope you guys enjoy this story and seeing some of your favorite Multiplayer Characters come to life on the pages._

Tragedy. That's all Gillian ever knew.

Her home- Ireland- was not easy on the poor. If you didn't have enough coin to purchase a crumb of bread, you never would. If you fell down, there wouldn't be a helping hand there before you; chances are the man next to you was in the same predicament. The last thing that you could sell were the clothes on your person, and once done you'd only have enough money to buy your withered stockings back.

Once, when they were just living in the streets, Gillian's mother had gotten paid for men to take her clothes off- not sell nor take them. At first the girl hadn't understood the significance of the dealing, her innocent mind seeing not a reason for the simple time they'd spend away from their mother in the late hours of the night. She'd just sit there and hold her brother safe from the world until the woman came back to the place where she'd told them to stay. Upon her return their mother would always look tired but warm, and for that the girl grew jealous.

Her and little Fillan always sat, huddled around some crates covered in nothing more than a rotten quilt, waiting through the subtle night for their only parent to return. At times they begged on the street corner for money, hoping that maybe someone fortunate was living in their town of poverty and would just happen to meander by on a comfortable stroll. Perhaps drop a coin within their small hands, not nearly graced with their teen years just yet.

It wasn't until Gillian had in fact reached her thirteenth year that she understood the profession that her mother withheld. The woman had grown tired, miserable. For good reason, but the daughter never thought that those oppressions would turn onto her. She figured they'd starve to death before Gillian would be forced to travel home warm and tired too, back to her brother with the hope that she was doing the right thing.

If it hadn't been for the coerce words of her mother, reminding Gillian that they'd never make it out alive if it was just her bringing in the coin, the girl would've grown up and married a man, trusted him and loved him. But because of what she was forced to do, she shied away at the sight of anything more than her little brother. The men- they made her feel weak and helpless. They made her remember that the only thing that Gillian had to survive was them.

But it all ended one night, right when they began to withhold some form of savings from their deteriorating effort. Gillian's mother fell sick with a force so strong that she didn't last any longer than three days after her first cough. The siblings learned of death early, nearing a breaking point in any known civilized manner due to the discovery.

In the same evening that they had dragged their mother's body to a public garden, leaving her beneath a scattered pile of dead flowers, the brother and sister made an agreement: do whatever they needed to survive.

There came a routine then. They'd wake up at six in the morning, wrapped in each other's warm embrace of course, and head out to do their biddings for the world. Which, in other words, meant that Gillian would… 'work' several times a day in order to earn more cash, while Fillan would learn the ins and outs of pick pocketing. And when Gillian said he worked hard at it, it could be perceived as an understatement. He would bring home mounds of coin pouches with only a week's time; all because of when he discovered to what lengths Gillian had to go in order to make a profit.

He wanted to take care of her, instead of it being the other way around. Secretly, as he'd never told his sister the thought, he knew that if she continued to willingly allow herself to be taken advantage of, she'd only turn into their mother. And that- that was something that he wouldn't stand to see.

About a year into their new systematic approach to making good coin, Fillan was caught on the eve of his eleventh birthday.

"Thief!" An old woman had shrieked when the small blonde boy snuck his nimble fingers into her apron while she worked within an inn, the bare amount of tips she'd received jingling inside it's one pocket. He'd heard the sound almost instinctively, perking when he could just barely see the outline of a coin taught beneath the thin fabric. Not being able to help himself, Fillan immediately took his chances and stood at the bar, sneaking quick glances at the woman whenever she'd pass by, never quite close enough. That is, until it appeared she was taking a break and began hobbling back towards a rear room, passing by the boy.

Licking his chapped lips greedily, Fillan shot his hand out to snatch up the money. But in an act of mere error, his little hand got caught in the pocket. It wasn't until the old lady had a ten year old dragging with her by the demand of the damned apron did she scream out.

"Thief! Someone, thief!" Fillan didn't spend more than a second within that inn, hearing a couple shouts follow him out of the front door angrily. Scared, the boy ran endlessly through the streets until he finally found their little makeshift tent, located in a lesser traveled back alley on the town border. Gillian was standing idly there, blankly tossing a coin into the air and then back to her hand, barely even noticing the huffing and puffing coming from her brother as he approached.

"Tá fadhb againn," he had exhaled out deeply, resting an arm against the brick wall beside him. Gillian peered up at the boy, brows furrowed with worry as she slipped the coin in a pocket of her ratty, plaid dress.

"Speak in English, boy," Gillian scolded him lightly, remembering when their mother had expressed the need for the change from Gaelic to the more popular language. Though her attention wasn't directed unto the minor notion, but rather the apparent problem that her brother had found himself within. "What happened?" She asked.

"Sorry," he said quickly, brushing off the comment. "I've been caught."

And from there, the siblings decided their time in Ireland was to come to an end. A rather abrupt one. There was nothing there for them. No family. No friends. No home. No solace. Leaving was the only thing that they liked about their country. Seeing it on the deck of an America bound ship was even better, feeling like their stomachs weren't growling. Like they had a job that paid well. Like they had a home to go to afterwards. Like they had a family living there with them.

Like their life was alright. Just… okay.

When they arrived to that dream, seeing an American coastline meet their eyes that enticed the most wild feelings of relief and delight, Gillian and Fillan both went hard to work on getting themselves secure in their new life.

The sister immediately found herself within a paying job at a quaint tailor shop, and the boy was making a surprising amount of coin for working as an extra hand in a carpentry business. Gillian couldn't believe the amount of success they had experienced in just the first year of living in the divine land.

Everything was going perfectly. And then he came into her life.

Gillian had sat there in the front of the store, having a casual conversation with her friend as she fashioned a dress with lace trim the day he waltzed in.

"It's a beautiful fabric, especially considerin' the price," the redhead said, toying with the lilac colored lace in observation, noticing that despite it being a strong build and having great saturation, it was a little stiff. Anything that wasn't pliable with ease was hard to work with, but it was cheap and that's what they were going to work with for that very fact. "But it's a little tough, you see." She held up the small strip up to her friend's view, twisting it only to find that it would pop out of her hand at the test of flexibility.

The other girl, Faline, made a face as if realizing something for the first time. "Ah," she said, dragging a rag over their wooden counter top. "Makes sense to me, since Gretta suggested we buy it." Gillian could've laughed at the gullible mind of her friend. Of course the rival tailor shop to theirs would recommend a, for the most part, unusable product. And it didn't help further that Gretta was an overtly cruel and bitter young woman. Had she not been graced with an almost supernatural beauty, Gillian was sure that the adversary would be considered an outright witch in most eyes.

It was often that she trotted into their shop, passive aggressively mocking them or belittling their way of creation before just simply leaving to return to her throne. There wasn't a dull moment whenever she decided to come around, just a tense one.

"Oh my Lord, how is it that ya've gone an' taken any advice from Gretta?" The redhead asked with an airy laugh, taking the lace and tossing it into the basket in which it had arrived in.

Interrupting their short conversation, an older man entered the shop, dressed in a combination of red and black between a long trench coat and high booted shoes. To Gillian, he looked as though he held a position by authority. You could tell just by seeing the cane he withheld in his one hand and the monocle tucked tight between his cheek and brow bone. Both accessories were lined with some form of gold, including the pocket watch that Gillian could just barely see from her angle in the front of the shop.

He didn't quite say anything at first, just peered around at the interior of their store with something that looked like an instinctive observation over curiosity or evaluation. It wasn't as if he was pondering whether or not he'd spend his money well, but rather spying on the room itself, like one would when expecting something. Why such a thing would become a reflex, Gillian did not know, but she could identify that it was just a small habit that he did in every room he walked in.

And then he turned to her, looking at the teenager with deep blue eyes that bore in her green ones. She couldn't look away.

"Could I delight you with a product, sir?" Faline asked the customer politely, seeing as he was eyeing her friend up like he was some sort of wild person. His gaze didn't waver even after he began speaking.

"Yes, I'd like to place an order for another coat," he said, dazedly almost. Gillian continued to toss back her stare, not giving up on whatever was occurring between them. She was uncomfortable and confused, but refused to allow this man to intimidate her in the way she figured he was attempting. And as much as she despised it, he must've recognized the effort and continued on himself.

Behind the counter, Faline all but yelled her bidding, trying to get the man's attention- or in the least his damned eye contact. "Wonderful! I will grab a parchment and quill!" Then she was off into the back room, leaving the two challengers alone, all to themselves.

Gillian wasn't expecting him to speak.

"What's your name?" He asked with haste, like he was suddenly in a rush to be somewhere. The girl paused, allowing the question to register in her mind while she overcame the shock that he'd began interrogating her so suddenly, and under no reason. She swore she'd never seen the man in her life, to which made her wonder what his true purpose there was.

"Ah… G- Gillian," was all the redhead supplied. The conversation set her in a very uneasy feeling, like she really shouldn't have been doing any more than helping him pick out a new hat.

"You're Irish," he stated, rather blatantly. Gillian didn't quite understand how the man could be so conclusive about the fact, considering she'd only said her name and not much of an accent can be identified through it's pronunciation. Maybe it was just the red hair and green eyes, then the littering of freckles upon her cheeks and exposed arms; through that he must've been able to make a wild yet completely accurate guess.

"Yes?" She said, cocking her head lightly, brow raised.

"You speak Gaelic?" He asked. She nodded.

"You have a husband?" She shook her head.

"I'm sixteen," Gillian declared, hoping that maybe it would back the man off of whatever approach he was trying to make.

"Lot's of girls your age have husbands," a knowing look crossed his face, lining his lips with the smallest of smiles. It made a strange feeling inside her stir, and she didn't like it.

"Not all girls are the same." He nodded along with the statement, finding it's relevancy valid in their conversation.

"Yes, as it turns out to be. If not a husband, under which man do you live with?" Why was he so adamant about discovering this divine secret of who she was sharing quarters with? And what did it matter? Gillian had never spoken to the man before, let alone have been in the same country as him for most of her life. Their exchange together shouldn't have reached passed a simple greeting in the doorway of their shop.

The girl was tempted to, with a rather rude attitude, end their conversation there and continue working on beating their lace in. But there was a form of curiosity lining Gillian's mind, forcing unwanted questions that required unwanted answers to her mouth.

"A carpenter. Please, for what reason do ya' inquire about me so?" She tried to ask as nicely as she could without coming off close to how she really felt: put off. Perhaps he'd be more inclined to give her an explanation if she'd act attached to wanting to have their peculiar conversation.

It seemed that the girl had struck a cord in the older man, his posture loosing it's obedience and falling slack while his eyes were overcome with something that she knew he hoped to hide. He somehow was thrown into a vulnerable state, she could tell, more then with his next words.

"You remind me of my daughter," he told her, clearing his throat as if he was embarrassed to be making the connection aloud, confessing something that probably should've been left deaf to Gillian's ears. She almost wished her curiosity to be damned to hell for making their revelation so much more uncomforting. What was she even supposed to say in answer to that statement?

"Oh," was all that Gillian could think of before their silence dragged on too long. The man seemed to notice her faltering faith in whatever was happening before them, pulling a fore finger and thumb to stroke over his rough textured chin. Gillian could see it as a nervous tick, as if he was no longer in control. Fillan did it too, often times when he was struggling to make decisions, especially back in Ireland. There his hand was practically cemented to his chin, constantly in a state of worry or distress.

"I lost her, you see," he said with a saturated solemn, though when the sound of Faline returning could be heard, he adopted the rushed tone once more. "We haven't much time, do you want to make a difference in this world, girl?" By then, the man was so close to Gillian's face, back arched like that of a scared cat as he embarked on questioning her beliefs.

Stuttering with shock, she blathered out, "I- I, yes. Yes?"

"Do you want to have riches? Do you want to help those without?" He asked further, forcing Gillian's attention to be caught. Of course she wanted riches, that's all she'd ever craved for, for almost ten years of her life. She desired beautiful dresses made of the finest of silks and velvets, a mansion big enough to hold the entirety of their poverty stricken town of Ireland, and, most of all, she wanted her and Fillan to be secure. To not have to worry anymore. And she wanted to help others who only wished to protect their loved ones, but were blocked by a simple material item in trying to do so.

Confidently, she couldn't help but to say, "yes."

"I greatly do apologize for that wait sir, it appears I've spilt the ink all over myself," Faline laughed- or more like cackled- still trying to be loud, especially when she spotted the man all but hunched over Gillian in an almost threatening kind of way. The redhead herself was craned back, squashed in the wooden chair she'd sat in, as if struggling to put as much space between herself and him as possible.

Much to her delight, the customer averted his attention to the girl and began meandering back over to the front counter. As he approached, Faline smiled brightly and dipped her quill in the messied inkwell, hand setting a piece of paper flat there. "So, what is it that you wish to order?"

"A coat. For a young woman."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

May 7, 1769

Discipline. That's all Eleanor ever knew.

And she wouldn't have it any other way; growing up under her father, British Officer Matthew Davenport, and learning through him of what it took to succeed for your superiors. For your country.

She could still recall the day when Gage had decided that the Americans had done enough damage in result of their acts. The day in which he ordered for British troops to be sent to Boston, including both Eleanor and her father. Almost all the soldier's families accompanied them to the new region, hopefully to shut down a small rebellion and maintain order within their colonies.

In October, 1768, they'd arrived, marching through the streets to not find any happy faces, but rather miserable ones. Only a spared few seemed in a state of glee at seeing their crimson uniforms streak their vision, such loyalty to their country and King being admirable to the soldiers. Everyone else would soon be converted; would soon learn to respect their fellow army and understand that they only intended to create a land of wealth and obedience.

It would only be a matter of time before things would calm down and Eleanor would be able to return to Britain with her father. But while on American soil, they decided that their time would be spent wisely.

For British Officers, finding housing wasn't an issue, especially in comparison to the lower ranking troops who had to be quartered in by the citizens. They were granted a delectable home on the outskirts of the city where it was quiet and the constant fits between the soldiers and the Bostonians were that of little. In their courtyard, Eleanor and her father worked hard on conditioning the girl; preparing her to live a life of a violence in a plan that she didn't quite understand, but one that her father more or less was going to be sure occurred.

She learned to be skilled with a sword, to fire a musket with a gaze similar to that of an eagle, and strategize as if she was taking over an entire country. In other words, she was becoming a soldier… and making her father proud.

In most cases, that's all Eleanor wanted to do. She never knew the graces of a mother. Never knew what it would be to marry into a rich family, earn wealth and make ends meet for a generation. There was no such thing as that in her life. Only the military and her single parent, of whom took care of her as if she was both a precious gem and a dog to be trained.

One day, as they were merely eating dinner in the quaintness of the night, Matthew had brought up a peculiar topic.

"Would you like to join the regiments?" He'd asked, bringing a piece of lamb to his mouth, gaze lingering on Eleanor's face to gage her reaction to the question. She didn't move for a second, paralyzed with a feeling of excitement before peering up, not being able to help the smile creeping onto her lips. Carefully, she set down the silverware within her hands, abandoning the meal in favor for their conversation.

"Yes," was the most honest and sincere answer she could muster, straightening her posture to appear good willed and sturdy. She wanted to look like a soldier if she was about to become one.

Nodding in admiration of his daughter, the man ate the last bit of his meal before continuing on, noting how the girl fidgeted in her place slightly. "Tis very good to hear, Eleanor. It has been about many lingering thoughts in my mind that you put your skill towards a cause that will benefit the King," he explained himself, finding with every word the girl's confidence seemed to rise, dark eyes growing large with the feeling.

"I'd serve George in no other way," Eleanor said, almost out of breath from the euphoria striking her at the prospect.

"Your dedication is commendable, my dear. Though in our time, young women like you are not allowed in the ranks," he said then, making the brunette cock her head with confusion. Why would he suggest something so precious to her before adding in the fact that women soldiers were not of modern standard?

She didn't even know how to answer. "Ah- I… but I am more capable than most men who call themselves soldiers."

"I understand," he agreed, setting down his utensils to clasp his hands together. "If you so desire to become a troop, you must not do it underneath my knowing."

"What do you mean?" She asked, truly boggled by how the simple proposition turned into a complicated plan that sounded like trouble for both him and her. Eleanor really did want to be in the ranks, but by way of going against the rules was tedious, especially when it came to tarnishing their reputations. If she was caught by another officer- or hell, ratted out by a soldier, they were doomed.

"You are smart enough to take into consideration that if you are placed amongst the men by my hand, I'd receive a fair amount of ridicule. Enough to force me from my position, you see," he stood up, walking along the long expanse of their dining table to approach Eleanor, hands finding her shoulders as he placed himself behind her chair. "So you must work secretly, under disguise. Not many men other than my commanders know of your existence, even less your appearance."

Eleanor couldn't help but to believe that her father had an agenda for the girl since the day she'd been born, hearing his words. As a child, she'd never been able to accompany him to operas or balls held by his higher ups. Nor was she able to sit in on any slight matters pertaining to the military, leading her to believe that he'd almost expected something like this to happen. How would anyone be able to recognize her as Officer Davenport's daughter if she was never seen before?

"Where do I even begin, father?" The brunette asked, truly at a loss of where she'd find a place safe enough for her to dress in uniform and not be called out for it. If Eleanor were to even simply walk down the street in a red coat she'd spread a mass wave of rumors which would likely end up in a commander's ear somewhere. It seemed as though they'd have to take some form of consequence no matter what approach they took.

However, Matthew seemed to hold no worries. "I know a place where you can begin, inside the city. It's a warehouse full of British goods, guarded by soldiers who have only two years on you. We give the dirty work to the young boys, and if you were to be given authority over them, I feel there wouldn't be questions asked. They're too worried about following orders and avoiding lashings." Upon hearing the explanation, Eleanor began nodding.

She wasn't so sure that there wouldn't be any questions asked by her peers, but it was worth a shot if the girl would actually serve in some sort of militant position. It was all she'd ever wanted, and maybe if it turned out well, Eleanor would convince people that even fifteen year old girls were capable of besting even the most feared men, the most strong soldiers.

"Well then, if it is so, I require a uniform," she told him, feeling the pressure of her father's hands leave, his towering form coming into view before her. He gestured to nowhere in particular while grinning down at the girl.

"I've already sent someone to get it," he said, while thinking: and something else too. Though Eleanor didn't need to know anything more than her excitement and battle drills. Slowly, things would unravel for their small family…

"Let's get to work then," she exclaimed, standing so quickly she'd almost knocked her chair over. "If I am to be in charge of soldiers, I need to be as great as a commander."

"As you will, darling, as you will."

June 3, 1769

"My God, I've never seen a child make something so well," Samuel stated, looking down at Fillan's handiwork with great surprise, a swell of pride arising within him as if he'd been the boy's father. "It took me years to create anything of this skill."

The blonde boy who'd created the chair that they both stood staring at looked sharply to his mentor, brow raised as if he'd been insulted rather than complimented. "Thanks, and I'm not a child," he added after his thankfulness. Samuel could only roll his eyes yet smile at Fillan's remark, brushing off his little pet peeve. For some reason, being called exactly what he was made the boy fret, as if he was trying to convince himself he wasn't actually a child.

"You are but a boy, Fillan," Samuel stated, arms crossed as he continued to stare at the wooden chair. Beside him, the boy just peered up at the young man with a calculating glare, though didn't speak on it. He knew he was right, but refused to believe it.

"Aye, tá comhlacht linbh agat, ach deir tú gur fear tú," the boy then stated casually, knowing that Sam hated when he'd speak in anything but English. Knowingly, Fillan laughed when he received an elbow to his rib cage, immediately taking off towards their front door like every other time he'd insulted the mentor in Gaelic. But right as he grabbed the handle, another force from the opposite side opened through the entry before he could.

As Gillian was about to enter the house, she paused before stepping through the threshold, eyeing up the sight before her. There were Fillan and Samuel, a wide smile on her brother's face whilst the older boy had two hands grasped firmly on the blonde's vest. All she could do is smile and ask: "what is it that you two are up to?"

"It appears this little brat is making fun of me… in Irish," Samuel sputtered out, wrestling Fillan to the ground when the boy attempted to free himself of the other's strong hold. They fell to the hardwood, rolling around in the dust for a couple moments.

"Mister Maverick, I must say, no matter how many times I tell ya' it's Gaelic, you continue to call it Irish," Gillian sighed, stepping over the tangled pair while addressing Samuel's misuse of the term, he only choking out a laugh before evading Fillan's flying hand.

"You know I only do it to annoy you," he chuckled, finally trapping the blonde's hands behind his back, ceasing any effort at winning their little fight, or escaping. Fillan laughed at the feeling of being paralyzed by the older boy, though not quite giving up on their verbal battle together.

"Cé go bhfuil tú tinn ag lorg, tá tú an-láidir," he said then, forcing the redhead behind them to whip around.

"For the love of God's green pastures, Fillan!" She called out, scolding the boy on his manners, though if not in the presence of anyone else, she would've laughed at the joke. "Apologize for that and whatever else you've jested about to get ya' in this mess."

Samuel just added pressure to the boy's wrists, watching as Fillan squinted at the slight pain but didn't saying anything about it, just spat out his apology. "Right, I do sincerely apologize my dear Samuel Maverick, oh how ever could I belittle someone as brilliant as you?" Then, at last, the mentor sighed and stood up, smiling over at Gillian fondly in response to the boy's words.

"He's quite flattering when he wants to escape," he said, laying a fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder when he peeled himself from the floor. Fillan smirked, reaching up to lay a palm of his own on the young man.

"And he's quite prideful when wrestlin' children half his size," the boy said, feeling the hand on his shoulder tighten roughly for a moment before they both mutually dropped their arms, looking expectantly at the redhead sitting at the dining table. She stared at them quizzically for a moment, propping her head within her hands.

"You both act like children," Gillian said lightly, a grin making it's way to all of their lips at the words. Fillan, who'd realized even he had called himself a child just seconds before, walked over to the window, peering outside.

"There's sometimes no better way to act," Samuel said, looking to the redhead as he seated himself in front of her.

"Could I go outside?" Fillan asked them, seeing how nice the day was through their dusted and cracked windows (the glass being injured due to a prior wrestling match), watching as all the kids and teenagers were out in the courtyard together. He turned, still hanging off the window to see Gillian and Samuel shrugging.

"Sure," his sister said. Excitedly, the blonde practically tripped away from the window and flung open the door, slamming it shut as he stampeded away from the house. As everything on the shelves finished rattling, due to Fillan's violent leave, the couple turned to look at each other. Secretively, they reached across the table to hold hands, never breaking eye contact. "I have your birthday present," she said then, reaching into her dress to pull out a golden pocket watch.

As it was slowly brought up to his view, Samuel almost gasped at it's glinting surface, so well crafted and expensive looking. "No, I could never take that from you," he said, shaking his head in disbelief at the girl. Gillian just took his hand that she held, pulling it over and dropping the golden item within his palm.

"I got it for ya' and now you're going to keep it, for me," she said, watching as he examined it with giddiness, debating on whether he should get up and give her a hug as he bounced within the chair.

Choosing that yes, such a gift deserved such a thanks, Samuel stood and jogged around the table, reaching down and wrapping his arms around the girl with adoration and love. Gillian laughed and hooked her hand in the crook of his elbow, peering up as he pulled away, meeting lips with a kiss.

"I love you," he said, moving away, the golden chain of the watch dangling and tickling the girl's arm. She laughed, shying away from the culprit.

"I love you too."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

May 5, 1770

That day, as Gillian would admit, felt very strange. She didn't know what exactly caused it, for the morning had gone as it typically did: her and Samuel waking up, gathering Fillan's sleepy body up and setting him to work before continuing into their normal routines. Everyone moved about in no different fashion than that of their normalcy, leaving the girl to ponder why on earth she'd feel something slight to dread invading her mind.

Even as she cooked their lunch, she couldn't help but let fear rise in her as she peered about their furnace and kitchenware. Something just seemed… off.

As she tried to pull her mind away from the lingering feelings of anxiety, Gillian abandoned their meals for a moment, strolling into the room adjacent to the kitchen to find Samuel working hard at sanding down a table top. Upon approaching her other half, the girl cocked her head at his handiwork, admiring the craft.

"That looks very nice, darling," she said, focusing on making her expression less worried and more sincere as the young man looked up in pleasant surprise. His smile was so bright she could've melted.

"Not as nice…" he said, standing up and throwing the sander down, coming to stand in front of the girl while wrapping his arms around her waist. "As you." Then he gave her a quick kiss, taking Gillian's hands within his wood dusted ones. There was a moment of silence as the girl could tell there seemed to be something he was about to say, though it just didn't seem as if he could spit it out. Sam's eyes darted here and there for a moment, before landing on the girl's. It only aided in increasing her fear.

"What's wrong?" She asked, eyes wide and stepping back to assess him, as if he'd been injured in some way. Though Samuel only shook his head, pulling on the redhead's hands in order to bring her back into close proximity to him.

"Nothing, nothing. It's just, I've done a lot of thinking… and I'm seventeen now, as are you. And I wanted to know…" he trailed off, reaching into his pocket for something that the girl was unaware of. "... if you would… m- marry me." Then from the palm of his hand, the carpenter revealed a small wooden ring that Gillian knew he'd made just for her. And of course, the ring was ever beautiful, full of winding engravings and their initials etched on the interior, similar to that of Faline's ring.

Gillian felt almost winded for a second, having not expected that with a morning of dread would there be an evening of celebration, because she was going to in fact say yes to his anxious question.

"Samuel, I'd have no other hand but yours in marriage," then she took the ring gently, placing it upon her finger in the moment of their binding. Together, they were one. For the girl, it was something truly special, not only for the reason that they were engaged, but for the idea that she'd never thought she could trust in a man again. Albeit Sam's age being hers, it still was a sting in her heart to see that perhaps they all grew up the same. Though, as it seemed, she was wrong, knowing that she'd never met anything more sweet in all of her travels. He wouldn't ever dare hurt her like she'd been tarnished by so many others.

Unable to contain his delight and excitement for the successful proposal, Samuel wrapped the girl in a tight hug before leaning away and kissing her feverishly on the lips, hand tangled in her shoulder length hair in an attempt to pull her closer.

Soon, things were led to the bedroom, where they enjoyed their new chapter in life together as the rest of the house was quiet, and the lunch on their kitchen counter laid abandoned. Slowly, the food began to stale…

Later that evening…

In the midst of the couple's eventful day, they'd decided to keep their newfound engagement a secret until that night's dinner, where they had gone to eat at their dearest friend's house. During the supper, both Gillian and Samuel decided that it would be wise to announce the proposal to everyone while they were all together, as occasionally their plans became rather busy and it was few in times they'd be able to earn these visits. Though, the ring in which the redhead wore would give it away if anyone seemed to notice.

Even as she brought out the food to be served, she attempted to conceal the small accessory, though she truly doubted anyone would notice the item, lesser comment on it.

"Here we go lads," Gillian sighed, coming around the table to seat herself between Fillan and Samuel, who casually spoke with their friends, the Carys and the Greendwoods.

On the beginning days of the brother and sister's descent into Boston, they'd been greeted warmly by Isaac and John Greenwood, having been secured quickly by them through Fillan's apprenticeship beneath Samuel, who himself was an apprentice, but a rather skilled one. Luckily their business held a stance of wealth and they owned a home fitting for more people, allowing Gillian and her brother to stay within the Greenwood establishment. She'd never been more thankful for the wonders they'd done for the siblings, and even more for the fact that they had brought her and Sam together.

Harry and Reginald Cary were merely friends of the Greenwoods that they had gotten the pleasure of knowing through time. And as of late, they'd all been in a schedule of having dinner at some point over their weeks; which Gillian would admit, was almost like living in a dream for her. She'd never had such great friends who not only cared for her, but just simply had great intentions.

"Smells delicious," Isaac commented, seeing the fish on his plate salted and buttered to a perfect degree, laced with various spices. Immediately he was digging in, having a long day at work really grinding down on his appetite. After taking a mouthful he waved his hand in the air. "And tastes delicious!" Then he was back to it.

Everyone around the table laughed, taking a portion of their meals and confirming that the dish was truly well made.

"You better snatch her up before someone else does, Sammy boy," John said to Samuel, nudging his arm while they both stared at Gillian. The girl went on, not noticing the commentary directed at her, though Fillan heard it.

"Oi, what are ya' sayin' down there?" The boy, now fourteen and rather proud, asked, making John blush slightly when everyone's gaze was directed unto him, and Samuel. Well, he looked about ready to reveal his secret to everyone now that he suddenly had their attention.

Though right as he opened his mouth to confess the simple words, the alarm bells from outside began ringing. Everyone in the party looked around in confusion, having not heard the chimes ever before. Typically if the bells had been rung, there'd been a fire or something more disastrous going on to warn the people about.

"I reckon that's the alarm bell," Isaac said, standing from his precious meal to peer out their front windows with curiosity. It didn't seem to reveal any smoke wafting into the air, nor any sort of glow hinting at a flame. What on earth could be the matter? "I will go and see what the trouble is."

From behind, Samuel grabbed their coats and began walking towards the front door. "Aye, I'll come as well," he added, stepping outside and into the cold evening, the sun just barely having an effect on the sky. "Perhaps it is but a meeting that had no better means of gathering people." As Isaac pulled his coat on, he appeared doubtful to the explanation but processed the possibility.

"I suppose, though we shall find out," he said, leading Samuel out the door. Everyone else clamored to the windows, some of the brothers putting their coats on, as well as Fillan. Seeing everyone suit up for a departure, Gillian fetched her shawl and came by her brother's side, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"We will wait a few minutes and see if they return," she told him, that feeling of dread rising within her again. Something was wrong, more than a mere fire terrorizing the night.

Making leave were both the Carys, Reggie turning to peer in the door at Gillian. "Stay here, don't want you and the young one to freeze, tis bitter tonight." Then he was off, leaving the girl to roll her eyes. She'd do as she pleased, and had her own say about the means of herself and Fillan. John, who stood there yet laughed lightly at seeing her reaction to the statement, though didn't speak on it when the girl herself continued to look despaired.

"Can't we go?" Fillan asked, wanting to quell his curiosity and see what all the fuss was about, to go out with all the older men.

"Yes, I don't know this feeling in me, but it is nothing good," she sighed, taking hold of her brother's hand, though he tried to free himself before realizing it was a battle not to be won. He'd make his sister feel better and just… be treated like a child in the protection of it's mother.

As soon as she'd took hold of Fillan, they were rushed out the door to go to Commons and see what was going on. And it appeared not to be too hard to discover the location of the disruption when crowds of people were heading to the Commons House. Meandering through the Bostonians and embarking upon their shouting figures, Gillian and Fillan were able to discover the true madness of what they dealt with.

There, in front of the house, was a massive mob that had gathered, and was continuing to get bigger. And from her place in the rear of the mass, Gillian could spot Samuel and Isaac entering the sea of people. Her heart began racing, wondering why on earth they'd allow themselves to be sucked into whatever mess it was. The redcoats would most likely reprimand those who were participating in the act, so it would be wise to stay clear of the riled up crowd, even more considering they were hounding soldiers who stood on the front steps of the building.

Sure, Gillian didn't quite agree with everything that the British were doing, but she didn't think it was so awful to criticize those who were only following orders and doing what they could to provide for their families, and country. Everyone in the world had a devoted loyalty, which obviously created sides to be fought on behalf of, and Gillian wished that everyone could just respect that fact instead of believe there is something truly atrocious of it. If there was really such an issue, they should be heading to the commander's house, or even report on the governor.

"What's happening?" Fillan asked, looking onto the rather violent scene.

Gillian just exhaled, leaving the cloud of a sigh to roll past the boy's face. "I've not much clue on what the matter is, but I suppose they aren't happy with the soldiers being here," she explained. "You see, many people were evicted from their property in order to give the soldiers homes." As if the vile act had been done onto Fillan himself, he scowled and looked up to his sister.

"How dare they? March in here and expect to take the house of another, like they've been entitled due to the gun and coat on their back," he bickered bitterly, arms crossed as he turned back to look at the scene, a newfound respect for those who were standing up for themselves and battling back against the redcoats. "This truly is tyranny of the King."

"Watch your tongue. Your belief has right, though you say the wrong things here and whether or not it's fair, you'll be ridiculed." The girl wrapped a protective arm over his shoulders.

"Is it not obvious to you that everyone hates them? The lobsterbacks?" Fillan asked his sister innocently.

"Christ Fillan, don't call them that, they're soldiers. And there are plenty still loyal to King George," Gillian explained, watching as the mob became louder and seemingly more disruptive. "There's an amount of respect you have to give them for standing there, taking a beating under the things that are out of their control."

"Have you not respect for those who are no more ordinary than me and you, standing up against an entire empire?" The boy asked, slipping from the girl's arm to look pointedly at her, trying to make her see what exactly he was picturing.

"Of course I respect them, but perhaps there is a better way to go about this."

"In what way?" He questioned.

She thought for a moment, "well, I suppose-"

Suddenly, out from nowhere, there was a loud echo of a gunshot, prompting the siblings to look up sharply. Then, no sooner than it sounded, there were more, a cloud of smoke rising from where the soldiers had been standing at the front of the house. Gillian didn't even know how to think straight as she realized they'd just fired into the crowd; the same crowd that Samuel and Isaac had disappeared into.

Forgetting about her brother, the girl broke out into a sprint, running into the dispersing crowd to see if she could find Sam or even Isaac. Though she hoped she wouldn't and they'd have already fled home to tell them of not a fire but just a mob. Though as she approached the area where a few bodies had fallen, she found a mop of light brown hair peeking out from a jumble of middle aged men.

Gillian flocked over to them, pushing through their shoulders to peer down at whoever had been struck on the ground, gasping when she saw Sam's pain riddled face, a large bloodied hole in his stomach.

"Samuel!" She cried out, making the men who'd been giving aid to the boy turn and assess her stance in the situation.

"Step back girl, he needs room," one of the men said quickly, looping one of the boy's arms around his shoulder while the other four took separate limbs, hoisting him up. Gillian was about to follow them to the doctor, as she figured that was where they'd been headed, when she remembered that Fillan was still out there.

"Fillan!" She called, running back to the place she'd left him, only to find the boy standing there, frozen in his place, just staring at the Commons House. "Fillan, are you alright, you're not hurt? Come with me, come," she took his hand, leading them quickly back to where the men were working their way through to the Wolcott practice. A small feeling of relief washed over her as she saw the business sign meet her gaze, knowing that Samuel would be well taken care of.

Templar doctors were in fact the greatest kind.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

March 5, 1770

Victor Wolcott had endured many things through his years living as a Templar. Many, many things. But of those experiences, he'd never quite made a decent friendship before, with the exception of his father, Edward, of course. Though it hardly counted towards the few tallies of those he could actually trust in.

Then there was Gillian, who proved to be one of the kindest yet dangerous people he'd ever known. Always modest and inquisitive, she yearned to learn about her peers and often times pitched in to aid personal issues that they weren't too keen to take to the Templars about. Could such compassion come from a woman who could murder an Assassin like they were nothing? Victor supposed so.

As he and his father spoke of the extremely secret plans of the soon to be Boston Massacre, hearing the mob of people at the Commons House grow in volume from their medicine shop, they weren't expecting for Gillian to barge in.

"Victor!" She yelled, running into the shop with a young blonde boy plastered to her side, behind her a small crowd of men carrying a body. "You need to help, please. He's been shot!" The redhead was in a state of hysterics, close to the doctor's face as she pleaded for them to help save whoever was injured.

"Okay, what's the manner of the wound?" Victor asked, standing to beckon the men into a room off the side of the parlor, spying a bloodied hole in the boy's stomach as they passed by. Clearly, he was shot, and the doctor was willing to bet as to why; their plan must've gone successfully.

"Musket shot," one of the men said gruffly, seeing a table in the center of the room they'd been led into, promptly setting the teenager upon it's surface. "Do you need any extra hands or should we make leave?" Victor just waved them off, knowing he'd be able to handle cleaning up the wound just fine without the help of five brutish men.

"Leave, go home to your families. I've got my work cut out here," the doctor said, watching as they all simultaneously nodded and fled the shop, leaving just Gillian, the mystery boy and Edward. Quickly, Victor rushed over to the boy's side and applied pressure to the wound, calling Edward over to be his extra hand in the operation. "Father, come, I require help here," he said, watching as the older man strode over to the now bloodied table, reaching to grab a cloth from a box atop the counter. He handed the rag over to Victor, who placed the item beneath his hand and continued setting his weight upon it.

"Who is this, might I ask," Edward questioned, turning to look at Gillian. She sighed, a lone tear falling down her cheek.

"Samuel Maverick… we are engaged," she said, peering up at the man before laying her eyes on Fillan, who'd been shocked by the sudden confession. Though he remained silent and looked on as Victor attempted to haul Sam on his side, trying to determine if the musket ball had gone straight through his back.

"Engaged?" The older man asked, looking between the girl and the young man who laid half drained of blood on their surgical table. She only nodded and continued looking on at the gore, prompting Edward to shoo her into the parlor. "You mustn't be seeing this dear, come and stay here with the young one," he said, taking her by the arm and pulling the girl into the opposite room, absently wondering who the kid was as well.

"Alright, please just, try to help him," she cried, more tears moving down her face. Edward just nodded curtly and shut the door, turning slowly around to approach his son who worked hurriedly. As he came upon his side, the father put a hand on the other's shoulder.

"Stop helping him," he said. Victor paused, brows knitted together as he glanced up at the man.

"What?"

"We can't let him live. If he dies, she's devoted to the Templars," Edward explained, moving to put his hands behind his back in a calm stance, opposite to that of Victor's confused glare. She was their friend, and though the death of her fiance would create a shift in her dedication to the Order, he felt very wrong in doing so. There was some sort of humanity in the idea of love, especially when involved in something so… dangerous. A part of Victor felt almost angry that his father would even suggest a thing, despite listening to his every word since the day of his birth.

Shaking his head, the son stood straight and eyed his father up. "Shouldn't there be another way?" He asked, almost in a beseeching tone. Edward remained passive for a moment, looking down at the man with sheer disappointment. How'd he become so soft at the mention of killing a man they had never even met before?

"You will kill this man, or so God help me you will be in his place," Edward said, face taut in a dark scowl, seeming to tower over the doctor who immediately shrunk in on himself. They stood like that, seeming to have a silent battle on whether or not the action would be taken, until Edward threateningly stepped forward, forcing Victor's efforts to crash.

"Okay," he said, out of breath almost with fear. "Okay, I'll do it."

"Good," his father said simply, returning to a state of peace while looking at the young man before them, breath shallow as he was on the brink of death. Even if they'd chosen not to put him down, the apparent Samuel likely wouldn't have survived anyhow. But, much to the older man's delight, there'd be no chances of life for the boy.

Once Gillian found out about her lover's demise, she'd be devastated- her heart would be shattered. And that's all they needed: some emotion. Because then, in the midst of the heartache and tears, Edward would swoop in and whisper little words of blame in her ear… blame on the Assassins for provoking the death of her loved on.

Surprisingly enough, a lot of Templars were working to spread the word that the Assassins were to blame for the tragedy, knowing that it would influence feelings of hatred within their newly welcomed followers. And for the Bostonians, well, they just blamed the Native boy for the incident, as heard through the news tellers and wanted signs already posted through the city. The profiling would help in their expansion over Indian land, hopefully making the citizens more bitter towards the tribes.

Everything so far was moving right along, hitting every checkpoint they wanted in the plan.

The next morning…

"I'm sorry Gillian, but he was practically gone when you arrived," Victor told the girl when she'd finally awoken, having fallen asleep the night before in their waiting chairs, along with the young boy that had accompanied her. As he recalled the death of her lover, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden pocket watch in which he'd found within the boy's trousers. The doctor figured it would serve great value in her life, especially considering it had their initials engraved on that backside.

She could barely reach out and receive the accessory without breaking into a sob, hand shakily taking the watch and pulling it towards her chest. From beside her, the blonde boy just glared up at the doctor, no tears meeting his eyes as he ignored the gentle words the man said.

No, he wasn't buying it. In fact, Fillan was a little wary of how the doctor and his apparent father had taken care of Samuel. Through the night, the boy could hardly sleep and momentarily left his sister to explore the shop while everyone presumably was resting. During this small block of time where Fillan was snooping around, he entered the surgical room only to find that Samuel still laid there, bloodied and without any sort of cover.

If the boy had known anything at all, that was truly disrespectful for a man who had just passed away. Though it did help to show the fact that there seemed to be no surgical tools laid out, nor any bloodied rags with the exception of one, which had been laid lazily beside Sam's deceased body. Something about the scene unsettled Fillan, but in that moment he'd figured it was the fact that his friend laid there, blue and no longer alive. The sight, however, didn't quite scare him, but was just off putting. It hadn't been the first time he'd seen a dead body.

Disregarding the fact that there laid Sam, Fillan ventured forward, stepping around the various trays to come beside his old friend and couldn't help but see something glinting from within his stomach. The blonde stepped forward, closer than what he had been thinking to ever dare, and took a better look at the wound. There, just barely concealed in broken flesh was a musket ball, not even removed from the hole.

Wouldn't that have been their first objective when trying to save Sam? To take the ball out? Fillan was no doctor, of course, but it seemed a little odd that they hadn't even taken the time to try and take the fragment out. Perhaps keeping it in helped to stop any excess blood to leave the body, though the boy truly didn't know and could only make up reasons within his mind.

He hadn't snuck around in there too long before feeling a little uneasy, having been around his old friends dead body for far too long, beginning to gain more consciousness and realizing the scenario he'd placed himself within.

Fillan then returned back to the parlor, sneaking around to the front counter to take a look at the medicines that were supplied (just instinctual things a retired robber did). There wasn't very much that was interesting amongst the elixirs and various cures, so the boy had decided to go back to bed, curling up next to Gillian once more before falling asleep. But through the night he couldn't help but feel uneasy, waking up a few times more only to lull himself back to his dreams before, finally, the doctor made them come to within the golden rays of the sunrise.

And there Fillan stood, arms crossed and looking up to the doctor with a doubtful and suspicious gaze as he felt rather uncomfortable yet within their shop. As well as his intuition being a bugger, the boy found it quite odd that the doctor seemed to already know who Gillian was, raising his fretfulness further yet.

"T- thank you," Gillian choked out as she rubbed her thumb over the golden surface of the watch, turning to walk out of the shop when she realized that no one had even known of Samuel's death besides her and Fillan, making the girl even more sad to have to break the news to their friends and the Greenwoods. "I'll… I'll see you in time," she called to the doctor, taking Fillan's hand in her's and leading them outside.

From behind, Victor could barely even say another word, feeling very conflicted with his choices as he plodded upstairs…

Two days later…

"Do we know anything about him?" Gillian asked Edward, standing rigid in front of his long oak desk above the medicinal shop. He shook his head in regards to knowing anything more about the Native boy than his ethnicity.

"I'm afraid not. He looked to be about sixteen or so, maybe younger, maybe older. Long dark hair, rags for clothes. Your typical savage," the older man said casually, leaning back in his chair to assess the girl's reaction to his language, immediately delighted when a look of disgust passed through her eyes.

"Filthy bastards," she muttered, placing her hands on the desk's surface, looking straight into the wicked blue eyes of her friend. "I want to find him, and make him pay for what he has done." Edward just grinned, nodding at the aggressiveness the girl withheld.

"As you have every right to. We are working as hard as we can, though the damn rebels have been tearing down our wanted signs and spreading false rumors of a different culprit," the man explained, watching as Gillian's face filled with bitterness, knowing that he was only fueling the fire. "For what reason we are unsure, but they obviously plan to deceive the entire city of Boston into thinking that the Natives are not the threat here. Likely because they want the barbarians to fight on their side without any complaints from the citizens."

"That's ridiculous, you'd appear more guarded and for your people if you rid the colony of the threats: these damned monsters who know not a shred of humanity," the girl ranted, standing straight and jabbing her hands together in a gesture of frustration. "I simply can't believe what things have come to."

Very happy with the proclamation, Edward merely smiled and agreed with her. "I've never heard truer words, for there are few who see the commendable potential in society. You understand the social inner workings of a cohesive group. You can grasp the steps taken to ensure full attention and obedience." He laughed then, reaching out across the span of the desk to grab a glass of water, taking a small sip before setting it back down, shrugging, "if only all women were like you…"

Gillian would've gave a flattered laugh had she not been in a rather rotten mood over the death of Sam and the struggle of finding the one who caused it.

"Yes, if only," she decided to say, remembering that Fillan was home alone for the day, as the Greenwoods had traveled to Salem in order to inform Samuel's extended family of the sad news. "Well, I must be going. I'm taking care of the shop for now, until Isaac returns. If there is any progress, do not hesitate to find me."

"Of course," Edward sighed, standing to lead Gillian to his office door, pulling it open and ushered her outside. "You will definitely hear from me if there is to be any news."

The girl only nodded and slipped away, feeling a ball of hate and anger slowly manifest within her as she walked home.

Ten minutes later…

Fillan sat in concentration at the dining room table, peering down at a notice that had been posted on the news bulletin outside the Commons House. The heading read: Boston Massacre Fatalities.

As soon as the boy saw it as he was on a mission to find the meat stand, he tore it from it's nail and ran back home. And as he read through the description of Samuel Mavericks death, he was overcome with anger and confusion, knowing that his intuition had been right.

Apparently, according to the Wolcott's Practice, Samuel had been killed by a musket shot (true, obviously), which impaled him to such a degree that the ball had exited through the young man's back. That- that was not true. Fillan had seen the musket ball still clearly within Sam's flesh as he laid dead on the table, even glinting in the minimal moonlight through the blood and skin. Which confused Fillan because why would you even lie about such a thing? Just say that the shot had been fatal enough to kill him before the morning, nothing more or nothing less.

Maybe it was just a mere error, perhaps a more graphic turn done by whoever wrote the note for whatever reason. Yet Fillan just felt so strange to the revelation, rereading the passage over and over again until he heard the front door open, then Gillian rounding the corner into the kitchen.

"Did you grab the lamb?" She asked, walking towards the table to see what the boy was reading. "What's that?"

"How do you know the Wolcotts?" Fillan asked suddenly, completely ignoring the girl's prior questions.

Surprised by the sudden aggression, Gillian just answered as truthfully as she could without giving the Templar position away. "They're friends of mine. We met at the tailor, I make coats for Edward." She figured that was informative enough, especially for a question sprung onto her so spontaneously.

"They're strange, I don't like them," the boy stated bluntly, crossing his arms. Gillian furrowed her brows, a little annoyed that her brother would be so judging towards people who only had the best intentions for her. He'd only met them once, and they tried to save Sam in that same encounter, yet there he was disrespecting their name. Fillan knew better than to act so childishly.

"Why," she snapped, crossing her arms as well.

"They wrote that Sam was killed by a musket ball, one that tore through him and left an exit wound," he said, lifting the paper to Gillian's view. She just shook her head, not seeing how that was any proof or reason as to why Fillan should dislike her dearest friends.

"So? It sure as hell looked that way when we carried him to the shop," she replied, not seeing any sense in his statement.

"Yes, but it's not, they hadn't even removed the ball," Fillan explained. "It didn't even looked like they had helped him at all." Gillian made a confused face, irritatedly glaring down at the boy.

"How the hell do you know that?"

"I woke up in the middle of the night and looked around in-" immediately Gillian scolded the boy.

"Why were you sneaking around? You can't just do that!" She yelled, not knowing what would happen if Edward had discovered Fillan going through his things, rooting around and such.

"When you steal from people for a year and a half you have a tendency to be nosy, have you forgotten where we come from?" The boy asked incredulously, standing slowly from his seat, being in line with Gillian's gaze then. "Oh wait, I forgot you're out there defending the Brits, like a damned royal brat."

"Don't-" the sister didn't even know how to express how angry she was with each separate point and insult of that statement. "Don't you ever dare talk to me like that! We did what we needed to do and you know what, I would do anything to forget it. And this country, I'm not from it, I'm not worried about the issues here. I've got but an outsider's perspective, so sorry if I'm not bitter at the world."

"What, you expect me to stay silent while you defend the kind of people who left half our country in poverty? The kind of people who are probably going to ruin this one?" He asked, getting increasingly louder and more passionate about his argument. This was the first time that they'd ever been legitimately angry with each other.

"Fillan, you're fourteen, what do you know about the politics of any country?" She belittled him, knowing that it was one of the things that angered the boy the most.

"Did I need to be fucked by a married man at thirteen to understand the world we live in?" Fillan asked loudly, not even regretting how harsh the words were in the moment. Even as Gillian's face turned to that of horror, he continued to glare and hold his ground.

"Did… did you just- how could you?" She stuttered out, hardly being able to register her brother's words. "I didn't think that after letting any man get near me like that, I'd have it used against me by my own brother."

"And I never thought that coming to America would make you take two lying old fools over your family," the boy spat venomously, slapping his hand on the table.

Gillian scowled heavily at the comment, leaning over the tabletop herself to get in the boy's face. "They are my family," she drawled, wanting to hurt him as much as he'd just hurt her. And it appeared she did, as for a flicker of a moment his eyes flashed in sheer pain, though were quickly clouded over in anger once more.

"Then I suppose you can go live with them, huh? Leave me to fend for myself again, right?" Fillan said, calmer but yet with frustration, cowering back towards the wall as he looked to the floor. His words confused Gillian, for she didn't know how she'd abandoned Fillan in any way. If anything, she was the reason why they never had been apart. But her mind was too freshly burned with his prior words to even think to ask about it.

"Yeah, I suppose I can, maybe when you get caught stealing again you can just leave the bloody country," she called, walking out of the room to gather her coat and satchel, amongst other things. There was no way that at that moment she could stay within the same house as the boy.

"Oh trust me I'll be gone before you can even run to your little lying friends," he yelled from the opposite side of the house, kicking the dining chair out of the way and walking out of the Greenwood's back door without another word.

He didn't intend to come back.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

March 8, 1770

"The wretched audacity of that fool," Gillian muttered, having returned back to Edward's office as soon as she had fled from their home. She needed to go someone who would listen, who would help. What Fillan had said hurt her, and at the same time angered the girl beyond any comprehension. Did he not realize the lengths that she had gone through to keep them all alive? Did he truly miss that point in their life? "He doesn't… he doesn't understand."

Edward just sat there, chin rested within his hand as he thought about the dilemma. "It's unforgivable," he told her, being blunt. Sure, the words that they had exchanged were God awful, and shouldn't have ever even been thought of, but the girl wouldn't consider it quite so unforgivable. She loved her brother, and she hoped that he loved her, as there was no better bond than that of siblings.

"I would forgive him, though, for he is all I have," she explained, shrugging at the man with a frown. His face turned to that of confusion.

"You have us, darling. We will never abandon you, nor hurt you ever to the extent of that boy's actions," the old man willed, looking up at her with a face that seemed to hold great truth.

"Well," she sighed, "thank you for having my back. I just… I don't know what got into him. He's never spoken to me in such a way." As if waiting for those exact words, Edward stood up and began pacing the small space in front of his bookshelves, carefully choosing his words. This boy, Gillian's brother, was the last thing keeping her from them. Once he was out of the picture, she'd unlock the potential she withheld.

"Fillan… he appears to think radically, you see. What I'd like to compare him to is one of these rebels who wish to overthrow the British monarchy established here. Otherwise known as the only system of order and peace this country shall ever see." As he spoke, Gillian wondered back to a couple days prior to when the boy had passionately defended the mob that ruthlessly attacked the Commons House soldiers both verbally and physically. In her eyes, the people there were clearly in the wrong, and though none of them shot into the line of redcoats- as the Native had- the men still had every right to defend themselves against those people who were not listening to orders.

"It is people like him who join the Assassins. They are people who sit there and corrupt what is known of our society in hopes of making an obscure reality for the future of all mankind. Though as they conduct these plans, there is a lining of hypocrisy that turns them to target us," then he stopped in his pacing to turn slowly towards Gillian. "In the minor scenario, Fillan chose to direct the negativity on your forced occupation instead of allowing any light to hit his past of stealing from innocent people."

Then he went on to say, "he is a loose cannon in the world. He is young, mind already impressionable to the new dynamic of this country. There's no saving him from this madness, for Fillan is a boy whom will never understand these values that you and I are able to depict. You, Gillian, you share many alike things with me, and I believe that it is something worth commending, considering you are only seventeen," Edward then finally sat down, watching as his words swayed the redhead in the direction that he desired.

She stood there, nodding along with everything he had rushed out, making him believe that there was a chance that she'd come out of the office with a different view of her brother. One that prolonged their anger and hate against each other.

"What I'd like for you to take from this is my advice, and I say to just allow the boy to go out on his own. It is clear that you both need some time away from each other, wouldn't you agree?" The girl nodded aggressively, making him smirk for a second before returning back to a passive face. "This won't be the last time he hurts you. Anger to that degree never leaves. What he said to you was a betrayal, and it makes me fear for you that your blood could treat you in such a way. It's not right, you know? There is something extremely wrong with him, and I don't believe anyone will be able to fix it."

It was silent as Edward's words were processed into Gillian's mind, her thoughts on Fillan suddenly being replaced with the persuasive conversation she'd just had. Somehow everything that the older man made so much sense. It really opened up a new window for the girl to look through, especially on Fillan who truly did seem like he was just… a corrupted youth. Granted, living on the streets for about seven years of your life did that, though Gillian never turned out the way he was beginning to.

And Edward was right. His words were one of the most sickening betrayals she'd ever felt. It hurt worse than when her mother convinced the girl to sell her body, because he approached that very topic with sheer venom. There truly was no forgiving what he had done; what he would become.

Edward was right, and it was easy for Gillian's young mind to completely be overthrown by his words in the state of her anger, which was all that the man ever wanted. If Fillan would finally be torn from their masterpiece, the final strokes could be made. There was nothing more refreshing than to have someone at their knees, nothing making them hesitate in the actions of the Order. Hate was the ideal factor here, and the old man was convinced that it had done it's job.

"I- I think… I think that's what I should do. Just, focus on my deeds here," the girl said quietly, peering up to see Edward's soft and caring smile greet her. She smiled back, though there was barely any fuel behind it. She didn't feel happy. She was mad and overwhelmed with the events of the past couple days. Sam had died so violently, then Fillan came in and just kicked her while she was down. Something about the idea made the girl believe that her time should be spent away from the troubles of her life and focus on a greater plan for the country.

Just standing there thinking about Sam could've left her in tears, so instead she dove straight into what Edward had advised her to do. "Might I stay here until I can find a home of my own?" She asked, knowing that they wouldn't dare turn her away from their arms.

"Of course dear," the man said loudly, standing to walk over and open up his door, beckoning Gillian to follow him. He walked passed both his and Victor's bedrooms, coming upon a door all the way at the end of the hallway. He entered in swiftly, moving aside so the girl could look around and see the spare room.

She thought it was rather charming and for a room not used often, looked very nice and conditioned. The bed looked warm and inviting and there were pictures hung on the wall, making the room appear homey. Gillian was ecstatic to begin living there.

"This is wonderful," she exclaimed, turning to give the man a quick hug before backing away. "I need to fetch my things…"

"Alright, then come back here as soon as you can. We can start talking about finding this Native you so desire to punish," he planned, patting Gillian's shoulder as she nodded and walked away down the hall.

"Understood, I shouldn't be too long," she said, hoping that upon her return to the Greenwoods house, she wouldn't have to look into her brother's eyes, for just imagining them made her sick.

And she didn't regret a single thing about the feeling.

Three months later…

It didn't take long for Fillan to adapt to the street life once again, as honestly, it was some of the most fun he had when he wasn't worried about starving to death or being caught. It was a freeing feeling almost, now that he was older and away from his sister whom angered him beyond any belief. He'd spent his first week alone in the Boston alley ways cursing her name frequently and stealing coin more.

It wasn't until Fillan's birthday came around that he felt uneasy with their disposition. He really started to think about what was said, exactly, especially of the words that had left his lips during their argument. And soon he began to feel regret. At the most trying of times, Fillan's mind enjoyed venturing back to the point in which he'd called the girl out on her previous bidding to their savings. Had he really toyed with the serious topic in such a way that it forced them to live apart; the brother and sister that had been together ever since Fillan was born three years after the girl. They had both done things that were unhealthy for themselves and the people around them, yet there Fillan was, using his sister's weakest point to argue against her.

He made himself sick, and knew that if he were to try to fix it, he'd have to really think about his words. What the boy had said and done was practically unforgivable, especially for the words of a brother to a sister. And he knew that if he were to really go and approach the girl on the matter, Fillan would require proof that those Wolcott bastards were the ones messing with her. There was something fishy about their dealing with Sam, and though it could have all just been the way things played out innocently, Fillan still felt in his gut that there was something wrong.

In the third month of being away, after spending his birthday upon a rooftop alone and getting drunk off of an entire bottle of rum, Fillan decided to do something very, very stupid. Which, mind you, he had come up with whilst intoxicated, so clearly it was the brightest of plans.

June 14, 1770

"Greetings mister!" A small voice all but yelled from beneath Victor's counter, prompting the doctor to lean far over the surface to see what child had decided to visit him in the final ten minutes of them being open.

"Hello young one," the man said, smiling at seeing a little scruffy looking boy, tanned from playing out in the sun, yet holding pale blue eyes that struck Victor. "What can I help you with?" As soon as he asked, the child pointed out towards the street.

"There's a shipment for you outside," he said vaguely, making the doctor squint in confusion. He never ordered anything, for their supplies were just freshly stocked. So what on earth would they be receiving? Unless Edward had gone out and purchased something without letting the son know.

Figuring that was the case, Victor stepped around the counter to follow the boy outside where he was led into the alley beside the business. The setting for the doctor was odd, as usually when a shipment came in there would be a wagon just out front, not all the way down the alley. Perhaps Edward had put in a note to keep the exchange secret, for Templar goods were stored within whatever investment he'd made. Often times when they did those kinds of dealings, they tried to stay out of sight of anyone, fear of being seen as suspicious.

Though Victor liked to think that right now he was the less suspicious one and the situation he found himself within was more than eerie. He felt a little cautious as he followed the boy, finding within his mind that if this was truly a Templar deal, Edward would've been expecting the shipment or have told Victor ahead of time.

"Here," the boy said, pointing at a lone wagon sitting in the shadows, a couple of wooden crates sitting in it. There was no one seated behind the light colored horse that snorted at the commotion, making Victor turn around to look at the boy confusedly.

Though he was only met with a pair of angry, green eyes that were identical to Gillian's. But, unfortunately for him, it was her other half.

Fillan didn't hesitate to swiftly punch the doctor straight in the nose, promptly knocking him out cold, broken glasses falling onto the dirt floor with the heap of the unconscious man. Satisfied with the sight, the blonde turned to drop a couple of coins within the little actor's hands.

"Thanks little man, go get yourself something to eat," Fillan smiled, ruffling the kid's scruffy hair before kneeling to gather Victor, hopefully to carry him if he had the strength. Through running around the city, scaling walls and just simply being a bigger teenager in general seemed to help him look beyond a measly fifteen years. As well as aiding in the hauling Victor onto his back, carrying him to the wagon and throwing the man behind the crates.

Turning away from the wagon, Fillan noticed that the boy stood there yet, staring at the blonde with hesitation, like he wanted to say something.

"Are you okay?" Fillan asked the boy, taking a step towards him, hoping that he hadn't scared him by being super sketchy with the doctor, having just knocked the man out violently then shoved him in a wagon.

"Yes, though this is more money than one meal's worth. Would you want to eat some with me?" He asked, stepping closer to the teen, the coins jingling open in his hand yet. Fillan just shrugged, brows furrowed.

"Don't you have a mum to feed too? Or sister?" The boy just shook his head and looked down by their feet, scuffing his tattered shoes shyly.

"No," he said, peering up at Fillan through his dirtied fringe, hopeful look in his eyes as he wished to have some company that night. Of course, the blonde couldn't bear to say no to the child that reminded him of himself.

"Well alright, hop in and we will find something," he called, walking towards the wagon once more and jumping in behind the reins, beckoning for the boy to follow suit. And so he did, coming along the side, just barely being able to hoist himself up on shaky limbs into the seat. Fillan reached out a hand, feeling the boy grasp roughly on in order to work the rest of the way up. Though the blonde had felt the sensation of starvation many times before, he couldn't recall ever being so frail as the child next to him appeared to be.

Though he wouldn't ask about it, as Fillan understood the embarrassment that came along with answering the questions as to why you were homeless, poor. It was always the same three things.

What happened? Our father died and the business was taken over.

How long? Seven years or so.

Are you alone? No.

And even after answering the survey of curiosities, the people would just walk along and not offer any help, probably just thinking within their minds: glad I'm not them. Sometimes Fillan was glad he wasn't them either, for he was given an appreciation of many things in life. Here those people were, strolling along and turning their cheek to the despair that ran it's show beside them, not giving an ounce of care.

It was like two spectrums that didn't meet for the exceptions of those in the middle; the ones who actually gave a damn and offered what they could. Fillan liked to think of himself as one of those people, especially in the situation that he found himself within. He wasn't going to take the money that he'd just given the boy and buy two meals- no- he was going to steal themselves a feast and give the child even more coin.

And he knew exactly where they were going to go in order to complete the divine mission.


End file.
